


Lettuce Share This Moment

by almaasi



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angel Castiel, Closeted Dean, Eating, First Kiss, Fluff, Fluff and Crack, Food, Food Sharing, Food as a Metaphor for Love, M/M, Men of Letters Bunker, POV Dean Winchester, Recipes, Sam is Inexplicably Absent, salad
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-12
Updated: 2014-02-12
Packaged: 2018-01-12 01:39:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,807
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1180387
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/almaasi/pseuds/almaasi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean has a secret: he's a closet salad-lover. It plagues him and shames him on a near-daily basis... and now Cas knows.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Lettuce Share This Moment

**Author's Note:**

> **Warnings:** Some internalised anti-veganism.

The trouble with salad was that it wasn’t _cool_. Sam liked salad. Sam was not cool. Dad did _not_ like salad. Dad _was_ cool.

Obviously there was more to Dean’s argument than that (Sam was sometimes cool, and Dad was sometimes not cool, oftentimes having nothing to do with salad at all), but when the topic arose, Dean would point-blank refuse anything leafy, green, or fruity - or for that matter, all three at once.

The theory continued to Dean’s drinks. Dean would not choose anything outside of the range of whiskey/scotch/beer, with the occasional vodka or tequila for singular occasions. No matter how delicious the fruity cocktails looked when they had a sugar rim, a cherry and an umbrella, Dean would avert his eyes. One taste, and he’d be craving them forever, he was sure of it.

He was sure of it because he had tried a Caesar salad, once. Sam made it for him, that time Leviathans were poisoning everyone through the food, and hunters were doomed to eat nothing but organic fruit and vegetables paired with free-range organic meat.

They lived like hippie rabbits for a while. Dean was disgusted.

The disgust was all theoretical, though. In actuality, when Sam stooped to Dean’s level and placated him by making a salad _just for him_ , Dean tried it with all the distaste of a man forced to eat worms.

But it was actually... kinda nice?

Grilled chicken, basted in something Dean couldn’t pronounce, tossed with olive oil, lettuce, some freaky foreign cheese (which Dean had _never_ seen on a burger before), a squeeze of fresh lemon, friggin’ specially-made _croutons_ , garlic, and pepper.

Okay. It wasn’t simply nice. It was mouth-wateringly, head-spinningly, food-coma-worthy _awesome_. And Dean had to spend the whole time he was eating making faces like he wasn’t loving it, because then Sam would find out that Dean actually had taste buds. Dean would never hear the end of it.

After a few days on that sort of diet, Dean even started to dread the moment when the world would be given the all-clear and he would be allowed to go back to eating burgers and kebabs and deep-fried potatoes. Of course, when the moment came, he jumped at the chance to revert to his old ways, because that was the kind of thing he did. He got back his greasy skin and his always-stone-heavy stomach before bed, seeing no more of the light-footedness he got from healthy living.

The worst part of it was, he couldn’t poop any more. He could barely admit it to himself, but he hated when he had to crawl into bed with that uncomfortable feeling at the base of his spine, still blocked up and grumpy from the inside-out. He didn’t want to say to himself, “Hey, Dean. You haven’t taken a proper crap for eighteen days now. Yeah, you’re counting. Don’t you think it’s time to _do_ something about it?” because talking to himself was weird, and talking to himself about his bowel movements was even weirder.

After a month, the cycle was so infuriating that he gave up all pretence. Sam was out for an hour, he’d never know. So Dean snuck down to the local supermarket and he bought a pear.

Just one pear.

He ate it, and he went to sleep with a happy tummy for the first time in weeks.

It became his secret. Dean gorged on the good stuff when he’d eaten too much candy recently, or any time Sam left him alone to feed himself. He’d eat as much canned fruit as he could at once, then dispose of all the evidence - even going so far as to buy and eat half a burger as well so Sam wouldn’t suspect. Then, when Sam was around, Dean would say things like “Ew, keep your damn rabbit food, I’m not eating that,” or “Get your vegan ass away from my burger, you’re tainting it.”

Sam was nowhere near close to being a vegan, but he didn’t need to know that Dean secretly harboured a desire to see what it was like, to see if veganism made him feel all shiny and clean on the inside like eating peaches did. Dean was generally quite nasty to vegans. It was a cover, and he refused to feel bad for protecting himself, no matter how hypocritical it was.

Dean had never had bowel movements as blissfully regular as they were now. His improved eyesight, energy, and lessened full-stomach nightmares were pretty decent bonuses, too.

Basically, there was no going back. Dean was a healthy-eating junkie. He felt like he was living two lives, sometimes, but it was simple enough. He maintained his coolness. So long as nobody ever found out, it was all good.

✧✧✧

“Where is Sam?”

Dean looked up from his notes, seeing Castiel wander into the bunker’s dimly-lit library with a plastic container in his hands. “I dunno, he said he was going out.”

“Oh.” Castiel slowly crossed the marble floor, looking around like Sam would appear from behind a pillar or a bookcase.

“What’s that you’ve got there?” Dean asked, pointing at the container Castiel was holding.

Castiel stood at Dean’s side next to the table, putting the container down on the polished wood. “I bought him a salad. He - um, explained something to me, so I thought it would be nice to thank him.”

Dean’s eyes locked to the clear plastic, seeing butter beans, black beans, tiny chopped chives, pine nuts, and a whole bunch of other vegetarian things Dean didn’t recognise. His mouth started watering. He looked at Castiel quickly, before Cas could notice Dean’s interest. “Wh- what did he explain?”

Castiel’s eyes lowered to the table. “Oh. Just - something. It’s not important.”

Dean hummed politely, trying his best to return his attention to his notes on hunting. But he could almost smell the salad through its container (imagining it, fantasising - whatever), and he was so hungry all of a sudden...

“So, Cas,” Dean started, smiling softly at Castiel as he pulled up the adjacent chair and sat beside Dean, “where’ve you been all day?”

“I travelled.” Castiel’s gaze met Dean’s, his irises as potent a blue as they ever were. “Peru, southern Spain, China. Some other places.”

Dean smirked a little more. “Have fun?”

Castiel smiled too. “Yes. I made this.” He nodded to the salad between his hands. “I’ve never made salad before.”

Dean’s desire to have that salad in his mouth increased approximately five times in a single second. “You made it yourself,” he said, sliding his fingers across the table. “You probably picked the beans and everything, huh?”

“Some of them, yes.” Castiel slipped his hands off the container so Dean could touch it. The plastic was still warm from Castiel’s skin, but Dean felt the chill easing out from the salad inside. “Others I bought from a street market.”

“With what money?” Dean frowned, catching Castiel’s guilty eye.

Castiel lowered his gaze and put a hand into his trenchcoat. Dean scoffed when Castiel pulled out Dean’s own wallet. “I didn’t take much. There are some mementos in there which I think you might find interesting. And the change was all in Peruvian nuevo sol... so there are some coins left over that you may not be able to use in the U.S.” He pushed the wallet closer to Dean, skimming it over the tabletop. Dean put his hand on it before Castiel removed his own, but didn’t take complete hold until Castiel let go.

“Thanks,” Dean said, somewhat unsurely. He put his wallet aside, fiddling with the edge of his papers instead.

His stomach rumbled. Without considering the implication, his eyes skipped back to the salad, wanting it more than ever.

Castiel noticed. Dean had been so obvious it would have been surprising if Castiel didn’t respond. Castiel thought for a moment, then he said, “Dean... Would you like to taste it?”

Dean laughed, unsettled, shooting Castiel a _what?! why would you think that?_ expression. “Chuh! _No_.” He said ‘no’ with a refusal so childish that it could only mean ‘yes please’.

He looked away, embarrassed.

Castiel was staring at the back of his head. Dean knew him well enough to guess his expression: he’d start off with a confused blank face, and after three seconds (...two, three) realisation would dawn: _Dean wants the salad but is ashamed_. Then came the silence where Castiel began to smile at Dean’s turned head, giving him the chance to explain. Of course, Dean said nothing and made no movement. Then―

Dean’s stomach rumbled again, and his inner narration of Castiel’s thought processes never made it to completion. Dean looked around at Castiel, overcome with a tension in his gut that had nothing to do with his empty stomach. “It’s not like that,” he said hastily. “I’m just hungry; that’s the only reason.”

His longing had nothing to do with the beautiful presentation of the food, or the exotic ingredients, its unbelievable freshness, its bright and enticing colours, _or_ the fact that Castiel made it with his own hands, crafted perfectly and with love. Nope. Nothing to do with any of that, at all.

Castiel slowly tilted his head. “You say that as if there _is_ another reason.”

Dean mentally smacked himself for his carelessness. He gaped at his best friend, having become a suffocating fish on a riverbed after a flash flood. Goddammit. “Uh,” he said.

Castiel smiled, sphinxlike. “I can make another one for Sam. I have enough ingredients left over.” With that, he pushed the container towards Dean, not breaking eye contact.

Dean’s heart was as excited as his stomach was. Cas giving him food made him inexplicably happy, every single time he did it. Castiel had learned how to beg Dean’s forgiveness: with pie. He had learned how to bribe Dean: with pie. He had learned how to pamper, to gift, and to show affection: with pie. And now, apparently, salad.

Dean wanted to whine and bury his face under a mound of blankets so nobody could see the disgrace that coloured his cheeks. He couldn’t trace the exact reason why _enjoying_ things made him feel like he was betraying himself, but this was one of those times he felt it. It wasn’t only about the salad, either; Cas was giving him that soft and sweet look that made Dean want to pack everything in and just snuggle up and call Cas _his angel_. All possible implications included.

Castiel’s eyes darted down to the salad, then back to Dean. “Don’t you want it?”

Dean’s breath burst all at once from his throat, and he realised he’d been staring and not moving. He smiled quickly, a hand curling towards Castiel’s, pulling the container closer. “Yeah, no. I do.” He wanted it so badly it almost scared him. What if this salad meant more than a friendly offering to fill Dean’s rumbly tummy? What if it meant―

God, no. It couldn’t mean that. Cas didn’t _know_ about that stuff.

Dean swallowed, fingers popping open the slide-lock that kept the lid on the container. Once freed, the lid flipped open and hit the table with a gentle _paff_. The scent rose to Dean’s face, and he breathed in the aroma of fresh herbs and sauce and beans and chives and spices and colo _ur and exotic places anD CAS AND LOVE AND BEAUTY AND OH MY GOD―_

Dean stared at Castiel with eyes wider than they’d ever been before. “Wwhhaaa...”

Castiel blinked. “Do you like it?”

Dean blinked back. He nodded, speechless in reply. Cas didn’t know what he’d created. This was going to kill Dean, or at least paralyse him from sheer exquisiteness. And he hadn’t even tasted it yet.

He looked down, picking up the plastic fork that was attached to the inside of the lid. He sat there for a few more seconds, staring at the wonderful colours before him. This salad was literally about to change his life, he believed that so completely that he was almost afraid to dip his fork between the beans and shovel out his first mouthful.

But he did it. He was brave.

He put the mouthful between his lips and he removed the fork, leaving the food alone behind his teeth. He stared ahead across the room, unseeing, as flavour overwhelmed him from his tongue outwards. It short-circuited his brain, then infected his blood, his bones, passing fireworks through his system.

He chewed; the flavoured beans crumbled, crunched, squashed and spread, varieties of sensation between his teeth and over his tongue too numerous to catalogue.

It burned him like it was spicy, but it wasn’t quite spicy. Salty, yes. Sweet, maybe. It was so hard to tell, everything was so evenly balanced.

It was a whole new flavour.

Dean set his fork down and put his face in his hands. He needed a minute.

“Dean, are you all right?”

Dean nodded, palms still over his eyes. “Mm-hm.”

He took a slow, slow breath, letting the flavour settle on his tongue. His stomach screamed for more, his whole body yearned for another hit of whatever drug this was.

He took another forkful, and he smiled. He closed his eyes and ate, relaxing in his chair, feeling something like relief. This salad was reassuring. It was exciting and made him enthusiastic from the heart, but it was also calming: everything was going to be okay. The taste reminded him of something, of some _one_. He didn’t know who, or how, or why, but he felt comforted by it.

He was on his fifth mouthful when he realised Sam was going to experience this too, later. Dean longed to see his expression at the first taste.

On his eighth bite, he looked over at Castiel. Castiel was staring with a slack jaw, curious eyes, and a blush on his cheeks. Dean grinned, but it was more of a smirk, since his mouth was full. “This is frigg’n aws’hm,” he mumbled, then followed that up with, “Und’rstatm’nt.” He shrugged, then poked a bean-heavy forkful towards Castiel. “Want s’me?”

Castiel blinked rapidly, gaze falling from Dean’s eyes to the fork. He stared like he didn’t recognise it.

Dean lifted the fork closer to Castiel’s mouth, gulping down his own mouthful as he gestured the speared beans towards Castiel’s face. “Go ooon. Tell me what it tastes like to you.”

Castiel considered for a few more seconds, wearing his most innocent expression - then, cautiously, he lowered his mouth around the fork.

It only occurred to Dean when Cas had his mouth full and Dean was still holding the fork, that if Dean eating salad wasn’t cool, then it was probably _less_ cool for Dean to hand-feed salad to an angel. But Cas didn’t seem to mind. Neither did Dean’s reproductive parts.

Castiel pulled back and chewed slowly. Dean sat there, utterly stunned at what had just transpired between them. He forgot he held the fork, and sat watching Castiel chew.

“What does it taste like?” Dean managed to ask.

Castiel smacked his tongue against the roof of his mouth a few times, frowning as he thought about it. He looked at the salad, then at Dean. He didn’t seem very satisfied. “Molecules,” he said. “Every time I eat now, everything just tastes like _things_.” He swallowed again to clear his mouth, pressing his lips into an unimpressed line. “What does it taste like to _you_?”

Dean smirked happily, leaning back in his chair, attention roaming over Castiel’s rigid figure. “Like a foodgasm,” he said with conviction. “I swear―” He gestured widely at the container, grinning, “If I could make love to something this beautiful, I’d die happy.”

Castiel made a thoughtful noise. His expression eased its tension when he saw Dean cram another bite into his mouth, giving a long, pleased hum while chewing. Dean figured Cas ought to feel pretty proud of himself; he’d made the best thing Dean had ever tasted, possibly in his entire life. He’d never thought he could say that about a _salad_ , but when did his life only ever provide him with the expected?

Dean chewed and swallowed twice more, before he started to feel awkward that Cas was just sitting and watching him gobble up his artwork. So Dean shared again: he stuck the fork into the mixture of foreign beans and scooted the container along the table into Castiel’s space. “Have some more? C’mon, it might taste better the second time.”

“I doubt it,” Castiel said sadly. He poked at the salad with the fork prongs, but shook his head and passed it back to Dean. “Even peanut butter doesn’t taste like peanuts any more. Just oil and salt and atoms.”

Dean harrumphed. On the one hand, he was happy to get the whole salad to himself, but on the other hand, he wanted Cas to appreciate how madly in love Dean was with his creation. Ah well. Cas was stuck acting as spectator to Dean’s enjoyment.

Dean slowed his food-shovelling the closer to the base of the container he got. His belly was almost full, so he didn’t think he’d actually be able to finish the whole thing, even though Cas was still watching him intently. That was the thing about natural food: it wasn’t just nutritious and delicious, it was also far more filling than anything fried ( _and_ it kept his energy up for much longer). Dean couldn’t say a bad word about well-prepared vegetables, not in his heart of hearts.

Eventually, while there were still a decent amount of beans, sauce and spices heaped around the bottom of the container, Dean had to pause to let his stomach settle. He wanted to eat this forever, but it was probably a good idea to stop.

He leaned back, licking his lips and rubbing his tummy through his t-shirt. “ _Damn_ ,” he said, completely satisfied. Sex wasn’t even this satisfying for him any more. This was... oh, it was gold.

Castiel was smiling slyly from the next seat along. Dean beamed at him. “Could make a chef outta you,” Dean remarked, eyes giving his friend an unsubtle once-over. He kinda liked the thought of Cas in a white uniform with sauce stains all down his front, messy-haired from the fluster of the dinner rush. Dean would eat at his restaurant every night for the rest of his life, given the chance.

“I’m afraid that would be much too difficult,” Castiel said, with playful wrinkles at the sides of his eyes. “As I said, my grace makes it impossible to know what things taste like.”

Dean glanced to the leftover salad. “But what about this? You made this, how did you _not_ know what it tastes like? How did you know when it was good?”

Castiel shrugged. “I followed a recipe book.”

Dean’s lower lip wobbled. At those words, he knew exactly which recipe book Castiel meant.

Dean smiled softly, breath caught on his tongue. His fingertips fiddled with the fork, flopping a bean around on its prongs. “You found that section, then. At the back of Dad’s journal.”

“I didn’t open the envelope, it was sealed.”

“Yeah, yeah. I know.”

Dean swallowed, unsure why he didn’t feel angry that Cas had used his power to read something Dean hadn’t said it was okay to read. Mary’s special recipes had been tucked away in their own section of John’s journal ever since she died, and Dean had never opened them. He had held off reading beyond the label, resisting their pull, because he wasn’t supposed to be a homemaker. No matter how much he loved to cook, to create and to experiment, it wasn’t supposed to be what he _did_. It was forbidden for him, same as eating salad or drinking fruity cocktails.

And then Cas had gone and read the contents with his x-ray vision, and made Sammy a salad which Dean ate himself. No wonder the taste had seemed vaguely familiar to Dean, he’d eaten this dish when he was a kid. But Cas made it fresh and new... he made it better. It was seasoned with a completely different kind of love than Mary’s.

Castiel wasn’t saying anything, so Dean volunteered: “It’s okay.” He smiled at Cas, but didn’t reach over to touch him like he wanted to. “It was a nice gesture, or... whatever. You know. ‘ppreciate it.”

Castiel inclined his head, offering an apologetic but relieved smile, as subtle as his smiles always were.

Dean licked his lips, turning in his seat to face Castiel some more. “So you really can’t taste anything except - science?”

Castiel smiled a bit wider. “Angels do not quite exist on same plane as humanity. We’re very much beings of basic, fundamental existence. Obedience, wrath, light and fire. And,” he gestured at the salad, “ _molecules_.” He said the word with an upset which came across as hatred.

“Well, that’s too bad,” Dean said sympathetically.

“Hm.”

Dean smiled when Castiel caught his gaze and held it. Cas’ long stares always made him feel contented rather than uncomfortable, but like his false hostility towards salad and fruity drinks, he pretended the intimacy of it annoyed him when it didn’t.

Boy, there was a lot of good stuff in Dean’s life that was rejected like salad and fruity drinks. Dean was starting to see a pattern.

“What does the air taste like?” Dean asked, sitting forward in his chair a little, leaning towards Castiel with an elbow on the table. “Oxygen and carbon dioxide and stuff?”

“In this room, century-old leather particles, yes. Dust.” Castiel observed the space around them, warm light sparking off his eyes. “I also sense a lot of history here, but that is to be expected. The harder I observe, the more I discover.” His gaze returned to Dean’s, somewhat fatigued now. Dean gazed back in wonder.

Given that Cas had these impossible senses, he was probably aware of the quiver of fear and anticipation that bolted through Dean’s body at the moment he realised what he was about to say to Cas next.

“What about this?” Dean said.

Castiel frowned. Dean wasn’t doing anything. “‘This’ what?”

Dean took a deep breath, telling himself it was all going to be okay. “This,” he said again.

And he shifted forward in his seat, falling into Castiel, lips together. Dean made his point: his tongue slipped into Castiel’s mouth, passing his flavour on. At least, that was the idea. In reality, Dean got 0.3 seconds into the kiss and completely lost his mind.

He was kissing Cas. Cas was an _astoundingly_ good kisser. That was where Dean’s thoughts ended, and his brain hazed over with white noise.

Moments later, Dean fell back, collapsing ass-first onto his waiting chair. His heart was thudding all over his body at once, he was out of breath, and his lips were tingling like he’d put toothpaste on as lipstick. Cas literally tasted like the light of a fire. Not the smoke, not the fuel - but the heat, the flames, and the colour. Now Dean knew how the salad seemed so impossible: everything about Cas was purely supernatural. He was _impossible_.

Castiel stared back across the void between their seats, looking as stunned as Dean felt.

“Yes,” Castiel said, running his tongue over his sore lower lip. “Yes, you taste - very nice. Very nice, Dean. But―”

Oh no, what did Dean do wrong? Didn’t Cas want it? Dean had been so _sure_ for all these years, maybe it wasn’t right to act on his feelings, they weren’t allowed, it was wrong and too goddamn weird―

“But I need to taste again,” Castiel said, squinting. “I don’t think I fully comprehended everything.”

Dean let out a breathy huff of a laugh, rocking forward and leaning close to Castiel again. Castiel’s fingers combed into Dean’s hair, pulling his head down the last inch to set their lips together.

It was slow this time. Dean still wasn’t sure exactly what was happening - this whole thing seemed to be going so fast, it was _crazy_ \- but this kiss was slow. Gentle. Teasing a little bit.

Castiel’s teeth plucked at Dean’s lips, and Dean shivered with a pleasure he hadn’t felt in a long time. Then Castiel sighed against him, and suddenly wrenched himself to his feet, wrapping Dean _tight_ in his arms, their open mouths pressed furiously to each other. Dean couldn’t help the surprised moan that curled into Castiel’s breath, or the shaking hands that gripped the back of Castiel’s trenchcoat.

First kiss, second kiss.

Castiel let Dean go, and Dean fell into his seat again, knees weak, the way all the movies suggested they would be. Dean was in a state of shock, but Castiel seemed perfectly composed. He looked down at Dean with an affectionate smirk on his lips.

“You taste beautiful, Dean.”

Dean shut his eyes in delight as he felt Castiel’s hand brush his hair back over his head. He smiled shyly, eyes opening to peer up at his angel.

“Awesome,” Dean whispered.

“Now,” Castiel said, his tone as businesslike as it was before they kissed, “I have to go and make Sam another salad. If you would like to stay and guard this one...”

Dean nodded, filling in the blank. “I’ll - heh - guard it. Sure.” He couldn’t stop smiling. It was freaky, but it was also _damn good_. His belly wasn’t the only part of him that was satisfied now.

“Good.” Castiel took a step away. His eyes lingered, and Dean just smiled more and more, toes curling in his socks. He let himself feel the content that he always repressed when Cas gazed at him this slowly. He didn’t feel uncomfortable at _all_.

Oh― Yes, he did.

“Cas! Hang on.”

Castiel turned around, only five feet away. “Yes, Dean?”

Dean exhaled gently. “Don’t tell Sam.”

Castiel considered that for some time. He seemed to be calculating something.

Eventually, he said, “When Sam and I talked, he impressed something to me.”

Dean nodded, curious, so Castiel went on: “He told me that if you and I were ever to... um...” Castiel blinked away, apparently bashful now. “Consummate our love―”

Dean gave a shocked huff, eyes down to his lap. Trust Sammy to talk about things like that with Cas before the ball had even begun rolling.

“―Then he wants us to be open with him. Tell him what’s going on. He said he’s sick of our communication failures, which is a complaint I really can’t fault him for.”

Dean nodded. Sammy had a point. Every problem they’d had was because none of them liked to talk openly about things that truly mattered.

Dean had a thought, and looked up at Castiel sharply. “Cas?”

“Yes?”

“I actually meant, don’t tell him about the salad.”

Castiel glanced to the delicious dish that sat on the table by Dean. “Oh. You didn’t mean you wanted to keep our kiss a secret.”

Dean smiled, a flutter of joy dancing inside him. “Kiss _es_ ,” he corrected. “And no.” Sam would probably guess what had happened anyway, since Dean could no longer trust himself to keep an acceptable distance away from Cas. (Personal space? What personal space?)

Castiel smiled in acceptance, that everlasting shrewdness still twinkling in his eye. “Well then. I’ll leave you to your food.”

Dean lifted his fingers in a farewell wave, then watched Castiel strut off towards the kitchen, trenchcoat flapping gracefully in his wake. Dean’s hands slumped into his lap, and he sat for a while, experiencing the full force of his astonishment. He and Cas had had their first kisses. Dean was inclined to call them _true love’s_ first kisses, because that was legitimately what they felt like.

He looked at the quarter serving of salad still left over, and he smiled at it.

All this over his mom’s old salad recipe. She’d have been so happy Cas did her food the justice it deserved.

There was whole unopened envelope of the recipes waiting to be tried out. An uncracked chapter of John’s journal; a new chapter of Dean’s life. It was all very meaningful, and Dean was really glad that Cas would be around to help him to explore all the things he wouldn’t let himself have until now. Kissing Cas for the first time was the initial taste Dean needed, and now he’d crave it forever.

And it wasn’t just kisses Dean would crave. He couldn’t wait to see all of Mary’s other recipes too. There might even be a recipe for a fussy little fruit cocktail in there, and if there was, Dean looked forward to trying it out.

He picked up the fork and ate some more salad. Like Cas, and pie, and so many other things, it was too good to resist.

{ **the end** }

**Author's Note:**

> If chew liked the fic, leaf me a kudo? (If you ate salad puns, I'm sorry.)


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